


Chiaroscuro

by dee_thequeenbee



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Renaissance, Artists, F/M, Firenze | Florence, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-18 13:39:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13682817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dee_thequeenbee/pseuds/dee_thequeenbee
Summary: written for the LoveFromOQ exchange 2018, for EmeraldHardy8.





	Chiaroscuro

The first time Regina sees him, it’s at her husband’s funeral.

It’s summer – the black dress she’s been forced to wear is heavy and tickles on her skin, the veil dangling before her eyes makes her vision blurry, but she sees him. For an instant, everything disappears. The crowd, the sounds of mourning, the prayers, the coffin – everything freezes and time comes undone, a long moment when their eyes meet and life slows down – a meeting of souls, her nanny used to call them.

It lasts a blink of an eye and then it’s done, the world speeds up, and she goes back to reality. Back to her uncertain, seesawing life, where she is now the head of one of the most powerful Florentine families, left to deal with the entirety of her late husband’s wealth as she raises her son until he is of age to take over her role.

That is, if no one kills her first.

The world is wide and life is short, so her mind treasures those blue eyes, cherishes them as a gift – as if she’s spotted a weird-looking cloud, or a rainbow after a gloomy day, or a red butterfly on the window panel. She will find out who that man is, she decides. She will ask, discreetly, quietly, she will inquire amongst the servants, amongst those who wander the streets, and she will find out.

The funeral goes on, but from that moment she fluctuates away, the only thing that feels real is Enrico’s small hand curled around hers.

;

The second time Robin sees her, it’s during the mass for the Assumption.

She looks well – better than she looked during the funeral, her last public appearance a week earlier. Her dress is light blue, her figure is surrounded with murmurs about how she’s already discarded the mourning colors, but he can’t blame her – the heat is scalding, especially for someone who would have to wear something that long and heavy.

Robin doesn’t get down from his spot. He’s perched, hidden on a balcony, up on the highest stages of the church. He was working, when the crowd of believers has entered. He decided to stay there, where he can observe without being seen. He rather likes his location, right now, because it allows him an undisturbed view on the crowd. On her.

It could be worrying, his need to watch, but he knows better – he’d love to know _her_ better, for she is a beauty he’s never seen the equal. He just _had_ to come all the way from old England to Florence to find his muse. He is silent, like a hunter, as he slides silently a scratch book and a charcoal towards himself, and starts drawing – the music from the organ surrounds him, he gets lost in the traits of his drawing, until he doesn’t even feel the heat, just the heartbeat of his veins against the paper.

He has asked about her, but she wasn’t hard to find.

_Regina_.

;

“A portrait?”

His voice is disbelieving, almost offending if she didn’t know better.

“Yes, a portrait,” she calmly explains. “How is it so strange, messer Donati? I want to do what my husband decided he was too much of a pious man to do, and reintroduce artists in this household. Is it really _so_ unheard of? Must I remind you of the glory of my ancestors?”

Donati nods, eyeing her with those unreadable eyes, his hand curling around his cane. “Very well, madonna,” he says slowly. “May I suggest some names, then?”

“Oh that won’t be necessary,” she smiles sweetly. “You see, I informed you since you’re the keeper of the books, but I will deal with the actual choice. You can, however, inform my competitors. Thank you, that’ll be all.”

He nods again, his eyes narrowing, and bows his head, walking away with his weird three-stepped pace. She slumps down on her chair, lets out a deep breath. At least he didn’t make a fuss of it, like she was sure he would. Now, the only problem is finding out if the artist she wants to meet will actually show up.

The maids know him, she found out. One of the slaves was a model in the artists’ district, before Leo bought her to warm his bed; and she knows of him – at least, she knew someone who knows the blue-eyed man, but Regina is a noblewoman, and she cannot go there by herself. Luckily, her maid is discrete, and the slave was quickly convinced to stay silent once she was reassured of Regina’s intentions to keep her in the safety of her house, even now that Leo is gone.

A portrait.

If she read him correctly, he will not resist. He will come, like a bee drawn to a flower, and maybe she’ll get to speak with him.

Her thoughts are suddenly interrupted by her son, barging in her room as if he belonged there.

“Enrico!” she scolds, straightening her spine. “We do not run like that, darling.”

“I’m sorry, mama,” he immediately says, sheepish, then smiles. “I was just excited.” She sees his nanny run after him, halting in the middle of the room when she sees her.

“I’m so sorry, madonna,” Bella tells her, her hand curling around Enrico’s shoulder. “He likes to escape, this little one.”

“Oh, I know,” Regina smiles at the girl, sliding down her chair. Bella is young, and a little frightened of her, but she hopes that now, after Leo’s death – now that she doesn’t have to hold up her usual façade of distaste and hardness – she’ll be able to warm up to her. “Now tell me, what are you excited for?”

Enrico starts blabbering about his new preceptor, about how happy he is to finally start with his education, and Regina’s heart swells and roars, because how she’d love for her Daniel to be here and see their son grow up. Even though their love was short-lived and glorious, and he had to sail away again after a summer of secret encounters, he left her with the most precious of gifts, and Leo never suspected the child wasn’t his own.

She walks with him to the gardens, relieving Bella of her duties for a while, listens to him and fully appreciates this brief moment of peace and quiet before she has to go back to her life of deceits and internal wars.

;

Robin stirs lazily, his mind still foggy of the headache he’s procured himself with too much wine. His arm is constricted, and he groans when he realizes he’s still trapped under a heavy, fragrant and decidedly feminine body. She’s blonde, this one, maybe a tavern maid, he doesn’t really remember, he knows nothing of yesterday evening except that he’s naked and he has a lovely girl keeping him prisoner under her weight.

“Robin!”

A scream pierces his ears, _Will_ , he groans, cursing the day when he chose to bring him along when he’s escaped from England.

“Whann,” he slurs, his fingers tangling into a blonde mane, but he doesn’t really open his eyes.

“Wake up, old man! There is something you need to see.”

He groans again, the warm body of his lover stirring a little above him, but it’s not until Will slaps his thigh that he jerks up. An outraged shriek fills his ears – clearly, his nameless companion didn’t enjoy being woken up so rudely – and the girl rolls away, her breasts bouncing as she gets away from him and lies on her stomach. Only then Robin realizes he’s half hard, but pays it no mind as he glares at Will.

“Alright, I’m awake. What is it?”

Will tosses him a piece of paper, and bites on an apple, wordlessly, waiting for him to focus on the words. Robin reads, blinking a few times, a slow comprehension of the subject starts filtering in his brain as he looks up.

“That’s it, man,” Will says. “The sign you’ve been waiting for. It seems your lady has started to play with destiny.”

He lowers his eyes down to the paper once again, reading the black words. It _is_ her. Regina de’ Medici wants a portrait – and she’s asking for the best artists to play this game. Of course, it’s more than just a portrait. It’s an occasion to fall under her house’s wealth and protection, as she wants to restore the old glory, to grow a new generation of artists now that her pig of an husband is dead. An occasion to meet her. Properly. With an excuse.

To meet the woman who has stolen his soul with just a gaze.

;

They are good.

She greets artist after artist, welcomes them, looks at their drawings and drafts, and they are good. Some, are exceptionally good. She spent her life surrounded by art – until the plague, of course, but then she’s had to marry to save her family, and it was her husband or nothing, so the gates to imagination have shut down. Florence was too busy rebuilding a normal life, they had to forget about trivialities for a while.

So now she wants that back. She wants a house full of ideas and light, she wants a new world for her son, to leave him something he can be proud of.

And they are good, and she’s been struck several times by the perfection of lines, the shadows and colors and vibrant designs.

But he’s still not here. So she keeps smiling, and nodding, and some of them join her in the reminiscence of the good old times, when her father ruled, before the disease.

She waits for him.

She knows he’ll show up, the blue-eyed man. That is, until her certainty is shaken up when Donati smugly informs, _That was the last one, my lady_ , and she sits and takes a sip of wine, trying not to fall under those thorns of disappointment picking at her heart.

“Have you made up your mind yet?” he asks her, and she shakes her head, forces up a smile.

“No, not yet,” she informs. “I… I will let you know in the afternoon.”

She hears commotion, from the outside – Bella’s voice, another feminine voice, and a deeper one she doesn’t recognize, the noise increasingly higher. She raises, goes to the door, catching the last words.

“I don’t think it’s wise, at this point –”

“Look, I think you should –”

“And _what_ is going on here?” she hears her own voice, imposing, and Bella’s eyes widen as the man turns towards her – and it’s _him_.

“Madonna, I told him not to…” Bella’s voice trails off as Regina raises a hand.

“There’s no need, Bella, thank you,” she smiles at her. “I appreciate your dedication, but I will not fault someone just because he’s late. That’s a matter he’ll have to discuss with me,” she says. “Please, come in, sir. Messer Donati, I will no longer require your presence this morning.”

;

As he joins her in the room, he already is captivated.

From up close, she is even more beautiful.

She eyes him, curious, and they exchange polite smiles, until she sits, the throne-like chair imposing. He knows power play, Robin. He knows she has the upper hand here, but maybe… maybe there is a way to even their game, maybe she really started to play with destiny. Maybe it’s his move now.

“So, my lady,” he starts, his best cocky smile in place. “You were kind to let me in anyway, despite my tardiness. I have to confess it did surprise me, in a way.”

She arches an eyebrow, surprised. “And how so?”

Robin dares, and nears the table, sliding off a chair, and sitting down like he belongs there. Her eyes widen slightly, but she awaits his answer.

“Well, I heard of you,” he says. “I heard many stories about you. I was, undoubtedly, curious to meet you. And I certainly didn’t expect our first meeting to be so full of kindness and humanity.”

Something shifts in her face, and he is ready to berate himself for upsetting her. It could be, that she wanted this to be a blank slate, a non-written page, and now he’s gone and ruined it. He starts opening his mouth, an apology ready on the tip of his tongue, but she lifts a hand. “Yes, thank you,” she cuts it. “Now… show me. Show me why I should hire you for my portrait.”

Robin nearly deflates, and goes to take a worn-out leather folder. It’s his most treasured possession, the place where he keeps his best drawings. He gives it to her, without opening it, and he starts fearing her reaction. Because it’s vital that he gets this position, not only to fight his perpetually empty pockets, but most importantly, because he finds himself completely enraptured with her.

She’s silent, during her scrutiny. Turns the pages slowly, her face doesn’t show emotions or enthusiasm, he almost doesn’t dare to look in her direction. At some point, she widens her eyes.

“This…” she starts, then gulps noticeably, her finger tracing the lines slowly. Robin looks at her, she’s pursing her lips together and her frown is deep, staring at the page. He follows her gaze.

It’s her portrait.

The draft he’s made, that time at the mass, and he forgot to remove it from the folder, like an absolute fool. Now she’ll think he’s obsessed, or maybe dangerous. Robin widens his eyes too, his hand curling around the folder, and her eyes snap up – there’s something akin to _fear_ there. “I… I, I think I should go,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry, I…”

“No, wait,” her voice is low, her grip on his drawing is strong and he sees her knuckles are white. She may be worried and upset, but she doesn’t call for help, for the guards or her maids. “Tell… tell me why. What do you see in me?”

He finds himself impossibly close. He hadn’t realize how much he’d got close to her, but she’s a breath away, and he pulls back, clears his throat.

“I’m sorry, my lady,” he says, grave. “I shouldn’t have – I believe I’ve trespassed, I had no right…”

“I… I don’t know if I should feel scared or honored,” she confesses. “Because this… this is beautiful, Robin. I… I’ve never seen myself like this.” Their eyes fall on the paper again, down to where he captured her expression, one moment where she smiled down at her son.

“I saw you,” he answers, simply, leaving the rest unsaid. _The real you_.

“I want more of this,” she whispers. “I want you to draw my portrait – if you desire to have it, the job is yours.”

;

Messer Donati isn’t happy.

It’s always like he knows something she doesn’t – but that he went as far as knowing every Florentine artist’s life – that she hadn’t imagined. But when she tells him of her choice, he arches his eyebrow and says _Of course, madonna_ , and his eyes are more telling than his words.

Regina dresses for dinner, and keeps thinking of him.

Of how happy he was when he’s accepted, how the gratitude in his eyes managed to choke her to death because she couldn’t hope, never more, never again, that this could lead to something more than a few good hours of polite conversation and stolen glances. After all, the portrait is to be an institutional one, made to be hung up and seen by her guests, and he will get bored.

There is no place for one’s soul in official portraits.

But she knows he’s a professional, and he’ll do as she asks.

Her days go on without a change – they agreed to meet in one week, to get the first poses going, for him to start sketching the first lines. It will take time, this portrait. Her days are boring and repetitive, as it has always been, but there’s that feeling of anticipation she can’t quite shake.

She wonders, Regina. She finds herself wondering in the midst of the most mundane activities, like when she has to go through the accounting books with Messer Donati. Has he a lover? Has he someone who stole his heart?

And, is Regina just a pretty face, an artistic challenge, or could he be actually interested in the soul he has so easily uncovered?

;

She borrows Bella’s cape, to go see him.

Bella is a maid and nanny in one of the most powerful houses, but she still has clothes from her old life, when she was the daughter of a poor inventor who died leaving her in misery. _Regina’s strays_ , Leo called them, the poor souls Regina managed to take in her home.

Bella has an old cloak from her youth, with a wide hood that would cover anything; so Regina goes, undetected, at sundown. Damn him. He wished for her to see where he works – he said he wanted to start in a comforting place, brushing off her great halls and beautiful rooms for a poor workshop.

She must be crazy, for trusting him so easily. She brings along a guard, though. Augusto has been with her family since she was fourteen, and he grew up to be a strong man whom she trust wholeheartedly. She knows that not a word of her secret rendez-vous will leak.

“Are you sure about this, madonna?” he only, quietly, asks, while escorting her through the darkest alleys.

“Yes,” she replies, “now when we’re there, you will stay outside, unless you hear me call for you.”

“Alright,” he agrees, easily, he has learned since a long time not to argue with her.

Robin is there, when she slides into the workshop. There’s no one else, everyone went home – or most likely into a tavern or a brothel. She can only see his back, though, so she pulls down the hood, whispers, _Robin?_ and he turns, smiling when he recognizes her.

“My lady,” he says, a small bow of his head. “Thank you for coming.”

“You must think I am a fool,” she observes, walking to the centre of the room. It’s dimly lit with candles and a slow fire in a corner, although it’s September and the air is still hot. “For coming here. It is not my normal style, mind you. I usually don’t answer well to this kind of calls.”

He stills, looking at her, and gently places down one of his brushes. He takes a step, two, until he’s facing her. The hand that lifts to her cheek meets warm skin – she doesn’t know if it’s for the increasing heat in the room, or for something else entirely, that maybe has to do with the furious thumping of her heart.

“And… what kind of call is this?” he asks, low.

Regina hasn’t moved, his hand still on her cheek, his fingers threading in her hair. “A call… a call where you expect me to answer, where you summon me. I am not some… _harlot_ you can buy when you desire so.”

“I’ve never thought such thing, milady. I only wish to take what you’re ready to give, and just as much.”

“And what is it that you wish to get?” she murmurs, staring at his lips. His eyes are still kind, when she lifts hers.

“Well, a few sketches, for starters. And… your trust. Knowing you can send that poor guard home, because no harm will come to you tonight. Or ever.” He smiles as she gulps, her hand curling around his forearm. “Then, if I read you well and you desire me as much as I desire you, I will start with your portrait. And it will be a fine one, I assure you,” he says, serious. “And only then, when you’ll convince yourself you are deserving of love and everything beautiful, I will kiss you, perhaps. But I will never think you are easy, milady…”

She never realizes she’s crying, until she feels his thumb swiping on her cheek.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, the imminent sobs threatening to devour her. “I’m sorry, I, I don’t know how you can say such things – you don’t even know me…”

“But I want to,” he assures. “What are you afraid of, Regina?”

It’s the first time he speaks her name. She shakes her head, softly, slowly, a sad smile pulling at her lips. “I’m afraid of the future,” she whispers. “My life is not easy, or safe. And… I’m afraid of me. What I’m feeling, right now, right here, is…”

“…is?”

He gently encourages her, his thumb still stroking her cheek, and she nearly capitulates under his gaze. She cannot have this, this man that was perhaps promised to her when the gods split the souls, and who could capture her heart and soul with a word.

It is _scaring_ , and enthralling, so she takes the leap, for the first time her peeking down the abyss goes to fly beyond it and she pulls him to her, her eyes closing into that natural gesture – she kisses him, abruptly, feels him melt into the kiss after a moment of frozen surprise, and it’s… wonderful.

Robin kisses her back, she knows, until she parts, a her eyes wide of recognition as he looks at her as if he’s seen a goddess, and this time pulls her to him, moaning into her mouth, his hand through her hair. _It’s you_ , he almost says, almost, she knows because she’s thinking the same.

It’s already devouring her – the fire, the thumping love that wins and roars and demands. She forgets the world – the world becomes a room of candles, and him, and her, as they fall amidst the color red.

 

_these violent delights have violent ends_   
_and in their triumph die, like fire and powder_   
_which, as they kiss, consume_

 

“Tell me a secret,” he whispers, in the dark, his nose pressing on her hair.

They’re tangled together, and she feels soft and comfortable, like she’s into a cloud, enveloped in his arms in front of the fire. The world has slowly disappeared, until it has shrunk down to the reality that his warm body against hers.

“I… I wouldn’t know,” she smiles, nuzzling against his bare chest. “Oh, I… I think I have one. I’m… I’m not a good dancer. My husband never cared enough to dance with me,” she tells him. Feels him tense up, and only then realizes she sounded, needlessly, sad. “No, Robin, it’s… it’s alright,” she rushes to say. “I got used to it.”

“You shouldn’t have had,” he grumbles. “I couldn’t imagine…”

She looks up, and his eyes are still hard – not to her, she realizes after a split second, for her. The thought warms her heart, and she kisses his skin, cups his cheeks. “Now I believe, good sir, you owe me a portrait.”

;

She’s beautiful.

When he looks at her portrait, he wants to burn it away.

It is _not_ … the official one, the one he’ll have to paint, one day. Oh, but he’d draw her anything, he’d make a sculpture of her, he’d paint churches and domes and entire walls of just her.

For now, he’s just sketched what he could see, what she requested of him. _I want you to draw me as I am_ , she has asked, unlacing her cape, her dress red and made of velvet. He’s kissed her and made her lie down, but hasn’t touched her. Her eyes brown and vivid as she never left his gaze, whereas he had to divert it – to trace those lines, to try and capture her beauty on paper.

When she’s asked, _Are you done yet?_ with a sleepy voice, he’s nodded, waited for her to close her eyes, and then she’s slept the sleep of tiredness as he’s watched her then the portrait, frustrated, angry to himself for his inability to do justice to her image.

Dawn has found him still gone, in the thin limbo between sleep and wake, Regina’s hand curled around his waist, her breaths short and quick.

“Good morning,” she whispers, soft, so soft he almost doesn’t hear. Her hair is a bit ruffled, her eyes bright like stars as she looks at him. She looks almost… surprised. “I… found the portrait.”

Robin blinks, suddenly awake, looks around and sees it on her lap. Makes a move to take it, rip it apart, but Regina doesn’t let him. Her hand is kind but firm, as she stops it.

“Robin, it’s… it’s beautiful,” she murmurs. He watches, as there are tears welling up in her eyes, tears she quickly brushes away.

“I don’t like it,” he says, frankly, her expression freezing when she meets his eyes. “I mean, you are beautiful, Regina. And I’ve been presumptuous to think I could manage to trap your soul. You shouldn’t be in a trap,” he says, almost pained. “You – ”

She stops him right there, pressing her lips to his. “Stop,” she pleads, “stop right there. You gave me something I could never regret, and I’m grateful. You see me in a way… that makes me glad I set up that competition for my portrait,” she laughs with a wet chuckle. “Robin, you haven’t trapped me. You freed me,” she says, and something lifts from his chest, takes its wings and flies. “And I am scared, because I’ve never felt anything so quickly and almost painfully, but I want to give… _us_ … a chance. So please, stop worrying, and keep freeing me,” she cups his cheek, her eyes piercing into his with an intensity which tortures him, “please, come with me, because I don’t want to go alone anymore.”

Her forehead falls to his, her breath falling short, his lips press to hers in a long kiss. It is answer enough.

;

Regina marries Robin of Locksley in the spring, after a letter comes – the rulers of England enquiring about the son of one between the finest lords, escaped to the Mediterranean lands after an almost-arranged marriage.

They have a moment of crisis – because he has lied, or rather, he didn’t tell her the whole truth. But they’re hopelessly in love by the time the letter comes, and she forgives in a reasonable amount of time.

Sometimes, they ride together to the countryside or the sea, and they stay away from the affairs of the city for a few days. No one knows what they do, except for a small circle. But there’s a room, at the palace, where he spends the hours with the best lights, and the lady of the house often joins him, as they rather likes to escape their duties for a few hours.

She rules the city, as everyone expected, with his quiet, steady presence at her side. One day, her son will take her place, and they’ll retire together, away from the crowd. For now, they live.

And they are happy.


End file.
